


birdsong

by atlas (songs)



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: M/M, Oneshot collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs/pseuds/atlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abe learns Mihashi’s hands before he even scratches the surface of the rest of him. It happens quietly, during a practice-match in April: <i>I like you. I like you as more than just a pitcher.</i></p><p>(abe/mihashi oneshot collection)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tactile

❀

Mihashi has nice hands. A pitcher’s hands—not soft, not smooth, but strong. Callused. Abe learns Mihashi’s hands before he even scratches the surface of the rest of him. It happens quietly, during a practice-match in April:  _I like you. I like you as more than just a pitcher._

(It is only later, much later, that Abe would consider this a confession: two boys, hidden behind a curl of leaves, palms clasped, and then the words:  _I like you._ )

Abe has never been good with people. So it is not surprising that he fumbles with Mihashi, at first. Mihashi Ren is difficult to understand—from his streams of thought to his stammers to his antics. He is achingly complicated, but: his hands are quite simple. Rough with pitch-bruises, pale with river-veins. Cold with nerves, and at times ( _rare, rare, rare_ times) warm with faith. 

See, Abe is not an idiot. Not a  _complete_ one, anyway. So even though he walks into this battery all wrong, tries to write off Mihashi like a lead, he starts to change along the way. He  _learns_ things—like the shape of another boy’s hand, and the cross-stitched, painstaking language that is  _trust._

 _(Trust is a fancy word,_ his father would often say. Abe disagrees with that.

Sometimes trust is as simple as a  _thank you._ Or a touch.)

Abe likes holding Mihashi’s hand. There’s something to it—to that ephemeral, skin-on-skin connection, that snapshot of a moment when he can _understand_  if Mihashi is afraid, if Mihashi is happy, if Mihashi is being brave. Maybe one day he’ll know Mihashi by the look in his eyes, know him by the lilt of his mismatched words—even if ‘maybe’ is a weak word, weaker than Abe’s yearning for this all to work, weaker than his longing, set as deep as Koushien, or even baseball as a whole.

But they have three years. They have time to work on it—on ‘them’—and they will.  _They will._

For now, he simply turns to Mihashi, and says: 

“Give me your hand.”


	2. alternate (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy’s a scrawny thing—big-eyed and small-boned. The _1_ on his back hangs loose and blue and Abe would almost say it doesn’t suit him. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU where mihashi stays at mihoshi, and abe goes to musashino !

❁

Mihoshi’s pitcher is nervous.

That is the first thing Abe notices about him. The boy’s a scrawny thing—big-eyed and small-boned. The  _1_ on his back hangs loose and blue and Abe would almost say it doesn’t suit him. Almost. 

Something holds him back. Abe can’t pinpoint just what that  _something_ is, not until he steps up for his at-bat. The pitcher— _Mihashi,_ Abe remembers—looks a wreck, with his uneven gaze and halo-thick hair. But his stance is firm. His resolve is heavy in his throw. 

 Abe can tell, after all. Abe is a catcher, one who has, more often than not, caught for a moody, storm of a boy named Haruna Motoki. Seniors League, Musashino Daichi. Only a year’s break between the two. A year of freedom, only not. When Abe chose Musashino, their battery quickly seamed back together—an odd pair, a frightful pair, but a fitting one, all the same.

Now, facing Mihoshi’s ace— _Mihashi Ren,_ Abe reminds himself, for future leads and references—Abe strikes out. Once, twice. This kid is no Haruna—his pitch maxes out at minimal speed and has little spin. But there’s something  _else,_ a strange, dreamy nuance to it that Abe could follow for ages. For a moment, he allows himself to wonder what it’d be like, to catch that pitch. Then, Mihashi throws a ball, a perfect ball, at the edge of the inside corner. Abe almost swings, but manages to resist. 

There’s hardly any time between Mihashi’s pitches, they’re quick and neat, but also painstakingly  _nervous._ He doesn’t look once to the catcher, and Abe feels a bit angry over it.  _Another self-centered one,_ he thinks,  _ignoring his signs._

Right along with the thought, another pitch comes. That same, sleepy fastball. Abe swings, decides not to put much thought into it. Decides to think like a batter, rather than a catcher. The captain’d already hit a triple off this weird pitch. Kaguyama-senpai managed a bunt. Musashino was leading by a point, and Haruna hadn’t even come into the game, yet. It was only the second inning. The team was fine, for now—

“ _Strike!”_

Abe lilts and rises with the trajectory of his swing, finally stilling once the call is made. Mihashi has a new gleam to his eyes, a trace, happy glimmer when he murmurs, aloud: “Two outs!” 

Team Mihoshi says nothing back to him, although Abe hears a faint,  _Two Outs!_ echoing from their dugout. Mihashi blushes, and Abe stares, all the way back to the pit.

Haruna sneers, “That was shit.”

Abe sneers right back, “Screw you.”

He watches the next batter step into the box. He watches Mihashi throw.  _Ball._ Less than a second later, another pitch comes.  _Strike._ That fastball, over and over. Sure, it’s got a misty feel, and all,  but shouldn’t that catcher be calling for something else? Musashino isn’t exactly a team of pushovers. They’ll figure it out, sooner or later—

_Strike!_

Abe furrows his brows. Mihashi keeps throwing the same pitch. He leans over, so he can glimpse at the catcher. What is he calling for—?

The thought dies out with the sound of metal, crackling against the curve of the ball. Mashida’d made a clean hit, right between third and second. He sprints to first, with time to spare. Abe only notices this from his periphery. His attention, instead, lingers on Mihashi Ren, and the tired, broken look on his face. He glances to the catcher, whose expression is completely blank. Mihashi mutely catches the ball, readies for another throw.

Abe swallows. Mihashi isn’t ignoring the catcher. He’s nervous for a reason.

They aren’t giving him any signs.


End file.
